He squinted at her, and gave her a John Wayne drawl: “They say I killed a man, Missy.”
Dana giggled. “You are constantly entertaining. And the most dangerous writer I know.” She glanced over her shoulder while stepping into the elevator, then put a hand on his chest. He pressed a floor button. She didn’t. Was she going to—
Her cellphone broke out in balalaika music. Suddenly she was talking in her native tongue. He raised a brow as the doors opened on his floor. Dana closed her phone and frowned. “Business crisis.”
“Temperamental artist?”
“Temperamental customer,” she muttered darkly. “I vas hoping to spend time vith you.”
Charlie sulked. The doors banged shut on him, then bounced open. “Don’t be disappointed,” she said, patting his scarred cheek. “The party’s only two days avay. You take me?”
“You bet.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and pressed her floor button. He backed out of the elevator and the doors closed. He vowed to himself that if she said “take me” one more time, he would.
Crenshaw appeared beside him.
“Whoa,” Charlie said, recoiling and falling against the wall, then righting himself. “What do you want?”
“The GBI released the results of lab tests from the Christmas Eve bombing. They say they found a huge amount of goat blood at the scene, along with your fingerprints. They figure some kind of animal sacrifice was involved.” Crenshaw paused.
“Go on.”
“Do you understand that sources in a major law enforcement agency claim that you worship the devil?”
Those assholes Finch and Drew, no doubt. Charlie laughed. “Sorry, I’m not that religious.” He slipped his key in the lock. When he opened the door and stepped inside, Crenshaw tried to follow. Charlie pushed him back.
“Nice place,” Crenshaw said as the door closed in his face. “So!” he shouted through the door. “Do you have any comment?”
“Yeah!” Charlie shouted back. “The part about the goats ain’t true!”
Charlie was furious that his tax dollars helped fund an agency that would say such things about him. Spence Greene and Blaine would love it, of course, since any publicity was good publicity, so far as they were concerned. As for the blood, he was glad it wasn’t human and fortunate it hadn’t been his. As far as the devil was concerned, well, the deal was done, whatever it was. He had the better part of a million dollars in the bank and a hot date lined up for Saturday night. No use worrying whether there was hell to pay, he told himself, but he was fighting a nagging fear that those assholes might be right.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday morning, Charlie temporarily put thoughts of the devil aside and read the e-mail from his attorney confirming his right to pick up his kids that evening and keep them for twenty-four hours. “Be cool. Be very cool,” Muncie cautioned. “Susan is hostile, holding you responsible for her grandfather’s death, and wants to revoke your visitation rights immediately, but I worked with her lawyer and got her to back off.”
While Charlie was debating whether to celebrate his victory or buy an athletic cup for his next trip to Thornbriar, he received another e-mail, this one from his publisher:
Charles,
Cutchins politician threatens to sue for libel if we don’t pull the book. Since our lawyers vetted the ms and the main bad guy is dead, I’ll stand firm. But if you lose, we don’t pay for the defense. If there’s anything we need to step back from, better let me know. Now. Just got off the phone with Cutchins attorney, Georgia ex-governor—charming fellow, btw.
Spence
PS They claim you faked footnotes in the other book. I said we have nothing to do with that. I hope for your sake that’s another of their lies. They are lies, aren’t they?
PPS Be a man. Answer your phone.
When the phone buzzed, Charlie answered it manfully. It was Crenshaw. Charlie refused to talk until he read the morning paper—the real one, not the Internet version, so he could see his relative importance—and the reporter didn’t want to hang up, so Charlie slipped on sandals and stayed on the line while he padded downstairs to get a copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. The article was atop the front: “Target of Lynching Book Kills Self.”
Target? What the hell does that mean? Charlie perused the article, then said, “Hey, where’s the devil-worship stuff?”
“It was not for attribution.”
“As opposed to off the record,” Charlie said. “Cowards.”
“Yeah. Managing editor wouldn’t let me print it. No cheap shots without a name. Journalistic ethics, or some such shit. Just when it’s getting interesting, too. I think it’s a blatant conflict of interest. I mean, most editors worship the devil, too. You were an editor once, right?”
“Yeah.”
“See what I’m sayin’? You should thank them at your next black mass.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. Moving right along …”
“So, if it wasn’t a suicide, as you maintain, who do you think did it?”
“No comment.”
“That’s worthless. By the way, the Forsyth DA calls you ‘Miss Marple.’ He doesn’t appreciate your speculation on the manner of death. But that’s not what I’m working on. I got a whole new thing. Yesterday I talked to some history professors. They had questions about the documentation for Flight from Forsyth.”
“Not that again. Why is it coming up now?” Charlie asked, though he knew that his work represented the mule’s toe in the tent on reparations, so to speak. Now he feared he’d screwed the mule.
“Oh, to attack your credibility, definitely,” Crenshaw said. “And I get to watch. Oh boy.”
“Old news. I’m concentrating on American Monster now, so—”
“Charlie. Charlie. You promised me documentation a year and a half ago.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Dude, I am so tired of you and the history you rode in on.”
“Whatever,” Charlie said. “Gotta go.”
* * *
After spending the afternoon cruising bookstores, signing Monsters, and buying a small library for Beck and Ben, Charlie arrived at Thornbriar just before six o’clock. It was hot and sunny, with a few hours of daylight left. When she answered the door, Susan was wearing a white summer dress. She looked good, except for her glower.
“Hey,” he said.
“I told them Pappy died. They’re sad, of course. I’m not taking them up there for the service.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“You are not coming.” Her voice could have carved an ice sculpture.
“No, of course not.” He thought he heard something inside. Harold? He’d been repeatedly warned to be cool during his visit, but he pushed his head inside the door, anyway. “Sirius?”
Susan pushed back. He looked into her eyes. They were smoldering like a poorly doused campfire. What the hell did you do to my dog? “Do you want to talk?” he asked.
“Not to you.”
“Give your mother my condolences.”
“Fuck you, Charlie.”
“No. Really. It’s a terrible way to die, to have somebody kill you.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “What do you mean? You killed him with that book, even if–”
“I didn’t pull the trigger myself,” Charlie twanged.
She clamped her jaw shut. He could tell she was in a slapping mood; he took a step backward.
“It’s not just about him.” Shining tears of anger filled her eyes. “You called me a mutant. You’re an asshole.”
Ah, so that was it. He had debated whether to put that in the book. “That just means I think more highly of you than the varmints. Anyway, you called me a pervert.”
“The difference is, you put it in a book.”
Now it was his turn to show outrage. “You put it in court documents!”
“OK,” she said, carelessly brushing back her hair. “We’re getting nowhere.”
The powder keg was defused when Beck and
Ben marched up, freshly scrubbed and dressed in bright, clean clothes, wearing backpacks like they were going to their first day of school.
“Where’s Sirius?” Charlie asked Ben.
“In the back yard.”
Charlie gave Susan the evil eye. “Lawyers didn’t say anything about not seeing my dog.”
Susan gave it back. “Didn’t say anything about seeing him, either, did they?” She broke off the staredown to stoop for goodbye kisses. “Bring them back tomorrow by six.” To the kids, she said, “I’ll miss you.”
“Miss you too,” Beck said, embracing her. Ben got dragged into the group hug, looking up at his father for something Charlie couldn’t give.
Susan pushed them out and closed the door. Charlie stared at it and shook his head before turning to tend his children. He buckled the kids into their booster seats, then climbed behind the wheel. When he started to back out, a horn honked behind him. That obnoxiously big BMW had snuck up behind him and was waiting to take his place—or bugger his car. So she was going out, probably to celebrate being one step closer to all that money. Despite his joy at being with his kids, he resented the fact that Susan was using him as a babysitter so that she could step out on him. Charlie couldn’t wait to see what Muncie’s detective dug up.
“Always carry a spare.” Charlie scratched his nose with his middle finger as he drove by Harold. “Let’s go eat.”
Charlie took the kids to Chik-fil-A for dinner. To his disappointment, they didn’t talk much. Everything was basic with Ben (“Do you still have rats?”); Beck wasn’t in a talkative mood. They didn’t ask him when he was coming back, something they’d always done before. Maybe they’d accepted his disappearance, or perhaps he’d already been replaced. Once he thought he heard Ben say “Harold,” but Beck quickly shushed her little brother. Charlie was afraid to ask them about the man, fearing that he wouldn’t like their answers.
At the loft, Beck and Ben ran around and bounced on the bed. They agreed that this place was much nicer than the dungeon, and they especially liked the big TV. No rats, he assured them. Charlie laid out mats and placed sleeping bags on them, then read aloud from a new Lemony Snicket book. After that, they camped out on the floor and watched a movie. Charlie fell asleep with them, waking to find Ben cuddled next to him, breathing warm and soft in his ear. My boy. Tears welled in Charlie’s eyes. Being close to his kids made sleeping on the cold concrete floor worth the discomfort, so he stayed there all night.
And woke up with a stiff back.
For breakfast, he took them to the bakery. Amy marveled at the kids as they ate muffins and drank juice. Charlie sipped coffee and read the paper, amazed that it didn’t mention his name. He was glad, for even he had grown tired of seeing his name in the news. Then he thought of that scumbag Matthew Steele and shuddered. He glanced at his watch and realized that Pappy’s funeral had started. The burial had been pushed up a day, since several family members would travel to Chicago Sunday for Monday’s taping of the Steele show. Charlie shuddered at the thought of sharing a flight with them.
After flying kites in Piedmont Park and visiting Fernbank Museum, Charlie returned to Thornbriar promptly at six. The garage was open. Sitting inside was a new silver Mercedes C300 sedan with dealer tags. So that was her ride now. He wondered how much of his child-support money had gone to the down payment.
Susan, dressed in black, opened the door. After the kids went inside, she told Charlie, “From now on, don’t get out of the car.”
He looked at her like she was crazy. “I’m going to walk them to the door.”
“I can’t even stand to have you on the property.”
“Y’all get right testy about real estate, don’t you?”
“I can’t condone what you’ve done.”
“What, tell the truth? If Pappy and his supporters, including you, can’t handle it, that’s your problem. You should come to the light.”
“You’re the light?” she scoffed. “Listen. I love my family. And I’ll always protect them.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t ever set foot in this house again. Consider it fair warning. You know what I’m saying.”
“I assume you’re telling me you’ll kill me in my own house.”
“Get over the notion that it’s your house.”
“And you know the rule we’ve always had. There better not be any guns in there.”
“You don’t make the rules anymore.”
“Those are my kids, too.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. Not after what I went through today. You should go. So go.”
“You’re really hateful.”
She laughed bitterly. “I’m a varmint. Can’t help it.”
Charlie expected her to slam the door in his face, but instead she stood there looking slender and really quite beautiful in an ugly way, watching him get in his car and back into the street.
Charlie returned to the loft and dressed for Aimee Duprelier’s Buckhead soirée. He thought he looked rakish in his seersucker suit and blue polo shirt with suede bucks, along with new rimless glasses—part of his spending spree for the upcoming “Monster Book Tour.”
Just after eight, Dana knocked on his door. She was wearing a little black dress; her raven hair was lustrous. She twirled. “You like?”
“Always. Come in.”
She gave him a promising smile. “Do you have anything to drink?”
“We must go out for that. My drinking days are over.” It helped to remind himself of that.
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Ve’ll have to go to my place for a nightcap then, von’t ve?” she asked, her voice an exotic purr.
Yes. This would be the night. Finally. He fought back a whimper of desire. As they left, Charlie caught their reflection in the wall mirror and thought they looked like models in an upscale vodka ad. He was glad to see that she wasn’t a vampire. (With all the supernatural crap he’d been through, he was beginning to wonder.)
In the hall, she took his arm. “I like your new look. Prosperous. Less of a bloody mess than I’m used to seeing.” She laughed and squeezed his bicep.
In the garage, Dana ran her fingers along his new BMW’s trunk. “I like.” And then she ran her fingers along his face. “I like this, too. It’s … rugged.”
Charlie cast a glance back toward the elevator, then reluctantly opened the car door for her. On their way to Buckhead, Dana told Charlie about their hostess in a clipped, Eastern European news-anchor delivery: “Aimee got half the company in the divorce. It vas privately held back then … and not vorth nearly so much as it is now. They did an IPO and raised three hundred and fifty million. Baldvin sold off his stock and she ended up vith the controlling share. Now he’s an employee in his own company, and she votes on all his raises. He’s probably the only chief executive officer in Atlanta vithout a stock option.”
“How do you know so much about her?”
She gave him a knowing smile. “An art dealer has to know these things. I am so looking forward to meeting her … and her money.”
“Dana the Dangerous.”
She gave him an impish grin. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No. Should be fun.”
* * *
Aimee Duprelier’s Buckhead “cottage” seemed like a cross between a mansion and a grand hotel. It boasted Italian marble in a foyer with a twenty-five-foot ceiling and wide, sweeping staircases left and right. As Charlie and Dana entered, Aimee broke away from a conversation to greet the new arrivals underneath a chandelier that looked like it cost more than Charlie’s BMW. “Why, Charles Sherman!” she cried out, her penciled eyebrows etched in flight. Aimee—a woman of indeterminate age, heavily bejeweled yet somewhat plain-looking, with the skin on her face unnaturally tight—wore an emerald green dress with a gigantic bow in the back. “Someone just told me you live in a dungeon,” she whispered conspiratorially as she touched his arm.
Charlie found her air of familiarity amusing. “I used to. Now I live in a castle, but
it’s under siege.”
Aimee gave him a high, throaty giggle. “You’re as funny as you are notorious. I’ve been reading about you every day. You’ve caused quite a stir with that new book of yours.”
“Oh, that.” He introduced his date to the hostess. A couple entered and Aimee turned to greet them. Dana’s dark eyes darted about. Was she casing the joint? Recalling the outcome of the GQ photo shoot, he kept a grip on her arm. When he regained Aimee’s attention, Charlie asked, “Is Redeemer here?”
“No, unfortunately. The cancer.”
“Oh, no. That’s terrible. Last time I saw him—I was fixing the door on his church—he wasn’t doing well.” He didn’t mention that Redeemer seemed to be on a bender at the time.
Her face grew long. “Do you know him well?” She took a confidential tone, as if asking Charlie to admit he was a liberal.
“Oh, sure,” Charlie said breezily. “I interviewed him for Flight from Forsyth, and spent Thanksgiving washing pots and pans at the Hunger Palace.”
“Ah, a man of many talents.” She laughed. “Feel free to help out in the kitchen.”
He gave her a wry smile.
“He really is in a bad way,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll march again. Of course, that’s not what I’m fundraising for.” She gave him a little laugh that he found disturbing. He wondered if Redeemer had any intention of setting foot in this place, regardless of his health. These were not his people.
“Wouldn’t bother me if it was.”
“This is for the homeless,” she chided. “Not that reparations thing.” She waved her hand to dismiss the thought. “Thank God that bill in the legislature died, right?”
Charlie frowned. Something sounded wrong about the way she’d said that, even though he was even more thankful for that outcome. Before he could respond, Dana chimed in. “Charles is making a contribution, aren’t you, sweetie?”
Aimee pointed to a basket sitting on the table beside the book. “Put it there.”
Brambleman Page 47